As You Sleep
by Giggles96
Summary: Reid's having difficulty sleeping. Hotch decides enough is enough. Not slash. Just father/son fluffy-stuff. Yay. Now doubles as a Sickfic.
1. Big Bad World

"_We go out on our own_

_It's a big, bad world outside_

_Carrying' our dreams and all that they mean_

_Try to make it all worthwhile."_

* * *

Swiping a hand across his face with the slapdash accuracy of a sleepy two-year-old, the low-hanging bags beneath his eyes more prominent than ever, the BAU's youngest trails into the bullpen ten minutes late with none of his usual flurry.

Coffee in hand, triple-strength and seemingly absorbed by sugar, Reid slurps in a forgetful, vague kind of manner as he removes his messenger bag with cold, uncooperative fingers and proceeds to gather his share of paperwork for the morning, doggedly ignorant of the stares from all around him.

Spencer is just about to plop his cup onto the desk, - apparently not realizing that his desk has never quite extended that far forward and that even if, by some stroke of luck, he managed to plunk it down _right there _on the ledge, there is no possible way the styrofoam-protected-piping-hot-accident-in-the-making would hold steadily enough to allow Reid to sit, free of a lap that's been thoroughly soaked and scalded - Morgan reaches out thanks to his fortunately quick reflexes and jerks the menacing coffee safely away from his best friend.

Only then does Reid react.

"Hey!" he protests in a voice a few octaves higher than he ideally would have liked. "That's mine!"

Brow raised in amusement at the whinny tone, Morgan gives the cup a cautionary jiggle and peers inside.

His eyes go wide in an instant.

Gagging, he exclaims, "Damn, Pretty Boy! That's gross! How in the heck can you drink this crap?" Double-checking just to be sure he isn't imagining things, Morgan glances at the alarming contents once more and cringes, lip curling in disgust. "What'd you do? Dump an entire kilogram of sugar in there? Ugh, looks like some kinda nasty sludge from a horror movie!"

"It's not gross," Spencer mutters, cheeks quietly flushed, while Emily snorts in disbelief and loudly objects, "Oh, come on! It can't be that be bad! You've gotta be exaggerating. There's no way-"

"Take a peek for yourself then," Morgan shrugs, overly blase, "S'your own fault if you don't believe me. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

When he holds the cup out in offering, his expression pretty much screams, _Go ahead. I_ dare_ you._

By the way Prentiss' nose screws up, it's entirely possible she regrets investigating.

Curious, JJ takes one look, freezes, then swivels 'round to bark at Reid.

"Spence!" The horror-choked cry would be comical if it weren't so fitting.

Besides, the fact that this is Reid... Well, a touch of melodrama is excusable, right? Especially when it's JJ channelling all that motherly concern she stores in spades for moments just like this. No-one bats an eyelash at this sort of fuss or attention anymore. Neither do they gawk at the occasional fond _'kiddo'_ or the disbelieving scoffs every time the kid insists he's _'fine'_ (Yeah, right. I'm sure you're _juuussst **peachy.**_ That's why your arm's bleeding. Oh, a gun shot wound? Is that all? How silly of me!) Certainly not when Hotch pairs him with Morgan and they all privately sigh in relief, because Morgan will have their little resident genius' back and given how well they balance each other out, nothing could ever go wrong, surely?

"What on earth were you thinking?" she continues, in full-blown mama-bear mode. "You know better than this! You, of all people, are well aware of the implications to your health. I can't believe you'd be so careless. You can't possibly _drink.. **that**_**."**

"Chew, maybe," Rossi is heard grumbling in the background as he, too, pokes around the scandal at hand.

Shuffling his feet, Spencer avoids her demanding glare. He purses his lips and frowns miserably to himself, before tentatively opening his mouth and defending feebly, "I was tired, that's all. I needed something to liven me up a bit." If possible, he manages to look even more pitiable as he nervously wrings his hands, and adds, "I'm really sorry, JJ. I confess, I-I-" Stifling a yawn, he wearily rubs his eye. "I wasn't exactly paying attention. I'll try not to let it happen again."

JJ sighs. With those great, big eyes staring her right in the face, she could not, under any circumstances, stay angry.

"It's okay, Spence." Laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, she tries to put the young man at ease, "I'm not really mad. It's just that…we're worried about you, you know? You don't seem to be getting much rest lately, particularly on a case, and I don't know, you look-" She suddenly cuts off.

_Sick_, her mind whispers. _You look sick_.

And it's true. His already pale complexion is that much paler. His already thin figure seems so much thinner. Gaunt cheekbones. Clothes that hang loosely off his frame. And, and his smile.. it's like it's disappeared. With all of those missing girls.

Washed away with the blood. Drowned out by a single child's cry. Gone in a way he can never forget. Not when he closes his eyes.

Clearing her throat, the profiler adds, "Not to mention, you're never late."

Reid's eyelids sag and he tugs around the edges of them, vision blurring, as he answers vaguely, "What can I say? Bad hair day?"

Morgan snickers. "If that were it, your tardiness record would be lot less clean, mister."

The younger man scowls. "Watch it! I'm not sure I like what you're insinuating."

"Insinuating? Dude, at one stage, so help me God, you looked like Jesu-"

JJ swats the muscular profiler before he can land himself in any more trouble than he is already in.

"Don't listen to him, Spence. Your hair always looks great," she soothes.

"Sure, tell that to the poor soul who had to give it the chop two years ago."

_"Morgan-"_

"What?" He grouches. "It's the truth and you know it. More than once, I thought to myself, you know, it's about time someone released that thing on his head back into the wilderness."

"Oh, you did not just-"

In that second, all heated glares and flaring nostrils, the two ladies have never looked so terrifying.

Next thing you know, the whole lot are bickering like school children, words like 'insensitive', 'thoughtless', and 'hammer-headed-douchebagged-jackassed-meanie' being thrown around like normal, because whaddya know, a certain tech goddess wandered in and quickly got swept up by the commotion.

Meanwhile, from a safe distance, Rossi narrows his eyes. The kid's too skilled in the art of redirection. He has the sneaking suspicion that Reid knew _exactly_ what to say to drop the subject. Morgan never could let an opportunity like that slink by without comment and somehow, he sincerely doubts that would slip the lanky profiler's mind all of a sudden. 'Course, all he has to do is appear insulted and voila, step back and admire his handiwork as the overprotective ladies pounce on their target. Crafty little bugger.

Sure enough, not long after, he spies Reid slowly extracting himself from the argument with all the delicacy of a bomb expert which, by this point, is less about articulating thoughts in any semi-coherent fashion whatsoever and more about who can come up with the most creative insults without using the letter S. Or T. Soon even A is outlawed, as it so happens - a turning point for all the wrong reasons.

That's if you can even call it an argument with the way they're all clutching their sides and laughing hysterically as Morgan accuses Prentiss of being a (oh, hell, if he succeeds in making it through this godforsaken day without requiring extensive therapy then that's one bullet he'll be proud to say he dodged miraculously) _nincompoop_ in the deepest voice he can muster.

The finest FBI agents, you say?

Riiighhht. More like effing kindergartners.

Still.. Rossi finds himself precariously in danger of cracking a smile at the sight of tear-tracks on his colleagues' faces.

Yip, he chuckles to himself, this is nothing like what he'd signed up for. Nothing in the least.

CMCMCM

Before heading back to his office, Rossi has every intention of calling Reid out on his schemes.

Right up until that last moment.

He gathers himself, draws a deep breath inwards, even opens his mouth to speak.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices the poor fella massaging his temples, unblinking gaze watery from his unbroken chain of yawning, and his knuckles white as he grips his pen with one hand and struggles to concentrate on what's in front of him, and Rossi thinks, maybe, just maybe, the best thing for him right now is a little peace.

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"Maybe I'm wrong_

_Or maybe I'm right_

_Maybe it's just too late but this is keeping me awake all night_

_Maybe say yes or ma__ybe say no_

_Maybe I'm just too shy to admit that it is time to go"_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

The wrinkle on his forehead appeared somewhere around ten that morning and ever since, it refused to be smoothed away.

Hotch is worried, on the verge of doing something drastic, and if he is perfectly honest, this intervention has been a long overdue, judging by the way the solution seems to pop out of nowhere.

His self-denial is truly astounding. You'd think the team leader hadn't spent the past week pondering the ins and outs in his head.

But he _is_ worried and if part of Hotch wonders if perhaps he's overreacting, then it's easily brushed aside as he recalls all of his very valid concerns and what propelled him to do this in the first place.

And it's about Reid, no less. Anyone with half a brain could see the kid was having a hard time at the minute - the genius' never-ending supply of energy not altogether never-ending anymore.

It is time to take action.

He can't stand by any longer. Not only because he is obligated to look out for the welfare of his team members on principle, but because it _hurt,_ somewhere down, down further in his chest - a muffled twinge that only ever announces it's presence when faced with his son in the slightest pain and it stirs up every deep-rooted urge to protect within him.

That... and, and with Reid.

The boy has always needed a little more encouragement than most and for all his social awkwardness or ill-timed ramblings, he has been somewhat of a sneaky weak spot for Aaron from the start and yes, some might say his overt sentimentality is eerily similar to that of a father. Or father figure. But, no matter.

Spencer tries so desperately to cope on his own, _needs_ to stand on his own two feet because that's just how it's always been, that Hotch felt he owed the kid the chance to seek help of his own violation, but as the days have passed and it has become abundantly clear that such a hope is hopeless, the troubled leader has made the executive decision that Reid _will_ accept support and he _will_ be okay and that's all there is to it, really.

CMCMCM

When twelve o'clock rolls around, (or rather, if you prefer to be precise as Reid so often does, two minutes and thirty-eight seconds ahead of midday) Spencer is surprised to glance up from his desk and discover a shadow looming over him.

"Reid, my office. Now."

The stern, no-nonsense words from his boss are enough to produce a spike in his blood pressure instantaneously.

Shakily rising to his feet and immediately following, the confused genius sweeps a glance over the bullpen to determine if any of his team members are aware of what this impromptu summoning is about.

The sudden absence of Morgan and Prentiss is striking and indeed, suspicious.

He wipes sweaty palms against his khakis - call it instinct, but Reid knows, _feels,_ that this concerns his earlier delay in arrival, but for the life of him, he can't figure out why. If they'd a case, sure, then they'd have a problem. _Wheels up in thirty _**means** w_heels up in thirty. _And he'd promised, hadn't he? Never to miss another flight.

Ten minutes - that's nothing. Morgan's been late countless Paperwork-Mondays and that hasn't warranted a rebuke as of yet. Then again, that's _Morgan._ He's Reid. The baby of the BAU. He has to behave. He's got too many people watching over him; it'd be stupid not to.

"Take a seat." Hotch shuts the door behind him and turns down the blinds.

Okay, this is getting weird...

His features, infamously expressive, signal his discomfort as his muscles tense to flee.

"Look," the grim-faced man begins, "I'll cut right to the chase. You haven't been sleeping. Why?"

Wait, what? _That's_ what this is about?

Taken aback by the blunt delivery, Reid scrambles for a reply. "I-I-" He shakes his head. "I don't-Who said-I never-"

Oh, no. Oh, God, no. _I never wanted him to find out._

"Breathe," Hotch reminds him, exaggerating his own. So he does. In and out. Head spinning. Questions tugging all the while.

"But-but _how?"_

His boss frowns. "Frankly, I'm insulted by your bewilderment. We're profilers, son. Is it so difficult to imagine that I'd recognise sleep deprivation when I seen it?"

"Hang on," Reid blurts, "I'm not deprived of anything! I'm fine, Hotch. I mean, I'll admit, yes, I don't always get the recommended amount every single night, but you, out of everyone, understand, right? Our job.. it's demanding. The hours are as irregular as they come. Naturally, it's going to cut into your time somewhere. An odd all-nighter here and there isn't going to cause any harm. I'm no worse for the wear than anyone else on this team."

_I'm not weak._

"Spencer, please. Spare me the defensiveness. I'm only here to help, okay? Just talk to me." His voice is pleasant, coaxing, soft in a way that bleeds all of the tension out of Reid's body until it's not just a superior and his subordinate seated here but a father, and maybe a son. "I won't think any less of you for having difficulties. It gets to us all. We keep busy and for a while, it works, until suddenly, everything grinds to a halt and you're faced with every gruesome little detail, every case, everyone you couldn't save. I'd be surprised if, every now and again, it doesn't become overwhelming. The thing is, though, is that you're forgetting that you don't have to suffer alone. Look around you. We care and we'd love for you to let us in."

Reid swallows hard. There's silence save for the younger man's restless squirming.

Aw, hell. Here goes nothing.

"I-I've been having nightmares," Spencer reveals, eyes flicking everywhere but towards Hotch. "They.. they've gotten pretty bad."

"Define 'bad.'"

Suddenly, his lap is the most interesting thing in the world.

"I dunno," he shrugs stiffly, "Screaming in, uh, terror bad..I guess."

Hotch sighs. "I'd assumed as much." Bracing himself for the fight to come, he inwardly grimaces before saying, "Which is why I've come up with a less than ideal solution, but it should work for now."

Reid glances up at him sharply. "Solution? What are you talking ab-"

"Starting today, you will report to me at noon each day-"

"Whatever for?!"

Hotch goes on as if uninterrupted. "You may use this hour before lunch in order to catch up on whatever sleep you've missed out on throughout the night. It isn't much, but it's a start."

Spencer's jaw falls open as what his boss is suggesting sinks in.

"You're not serious!" he splutters. "Hotch, I'm not-I'm not going to take a-a _nap_ in your office!"

"The couch should be comfortable enough. Garcia has kindly provided a blanket which you'll find is suitably warm and cozy." He reaches for something strategically placed under his desk.

Reid almost dies at the sight of this great, big ball of fluff - _fluff **everywhere. **_And are they-?

_You've gotta be KIDDING ME._

"Never mind the cartoon animals," Hotch waves off neutrality - oblivious to (or ignoring. Scratch that. Definitely ignoring) the other man's horror. "You know what she's like about colour. Something about needing to be perfect for her sweet, junior G-man, which I gather means she thought you ought to have one which is aesthetically pleasing."

_"Hotch!"_

"Rossi has offered to let me work alongside him during that period. That way, it is unlikely you'll be disturbed. The team has already been informed of your... situation. Morgan's promised to keep the teasing to a minimum."

"This is ridiculous..."

"Likewise, JJ mentioned - privately, of course - that you might need a little prompting nodding off in the beginning until we've established a routine, which I've also taken into consideration-"

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing," the dazed agent murmurs, "I'm dreaming. Yeah. A strange, whacked-out dream where I'll wake up and go, Oh, maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something."

"Reid? Reid, are you listening?"

He blinks. "Yeah. What? Sure."

Hotch levels him with a stare that immediately has him straightening. "As I was _saying,_ failure to comply will result in mandatory time off until _I _personally clear you, which I can assure you will be much, much more daunting."

"But-but-"

"No arguments."

"Hotch, it's bad enough that everyone calls me a kid in the field and ruffles my hair whenever the mood strikes them but _this._ This is too far. I'm a fully-fledged FBI agent. I don't need a nap!"

"Reid," And there it is. That subtle shift from a leader to a man who is anxious on his behalf and who is prepared to do whatever it takes to make this better. "In the time that you've been in here, you have knuckled your eyes on and off for the entire duration. Not only that, but I can tell you've restrained yourself from yawning on at least four separate occasions. You're exhausted. It isn't your credibility at stake here, it's whether or not you are well enough to do your job. Like it or not, I cannot allow you to continue running yourself into the ground."

Spencer bites his lip, feeling utterly defeated, as he asks in a tiny petulant tone, "But what about when we're away on cases?"

"Then I'll make suitable arrangements when the time comes. I believe you'll find, I can be quite easy-going, if need be."

Reid snorts.

Hotch raises a brow and watches as the barest hint of a smirk stretches into a cheeky grin.

"What?" He laughs. "You and easy-going in the same sentence? It's funny."

"Alright, I'll remember that the next time you wish to practise physics magic when you're supposed to be working."

"No! Wait! I take it back! I'm sorry!"

Hotch grins. "Apology accepted. Now," he swiftly checks his watch, "you have forty-five minutes today. But that should be fine since it's more about getting settled."

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"Maybe believe or maybe don't care_

_Shit, maybe there is no God in the big, white clouds up there_

_Maybe live long or maybe die young_

_Maybe live every day like it's your last day under the sun"_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

As promised, the couch is reasonably comfortable.

Curled up under the blanket he hates on principle but would loathe to admit he sort of, kinda loves, Spencer yawns widely and listens to the words he's long-ago committed to memory spoken in a low, gentle voice.

"_And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had the familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.."_

Hotch continues even after Reid's eyes drift shut and his breaths even out. Even after his limp arm slides off his chest and dangles an inch above the floorboards.

Smiling, he closes the book twenty minutes in and readjusts the blanket around the young man's shoulders.

CMCMCM

A few times, Reid awoke, trembling and panting, only to have Hotch ready and waiting with steady reassurances.

He'd pick up where they'd left off, and read until sleep crept up on the young genius and reclaimed him.

It was nearly four before he returned to his desk and was swamped by hugs from everyone bar Rossi, who clapped him on the back later on their way to the elevators. His support much less vocal or extravagant than the others, but no less appreciated.

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"We go out on our own _

_It's a big, bad world outside_

_Carrying our dreams and all that they mean_

_Try to make it all feel right"_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

For all his genius, Reid had a tendency to become so absorbed in his own mind that the rest of the world faded out of existence. As was only to be expected, he often forgot about his midday appointments and so, sporadically, Hotch would be forced to drag the kid there himself. After a while, however, Morgan and Prentiss took this duty upon themselves. Ordinarily by giving him a quick heads-up five minutes in advance or on a day when they're particularly struck by boredom, through a message on a paper air-plane.

Usually, the same one that had crash landed a few moments prior into the side of his head.

Several weeks in, even this was no longer essential.

Reid had become so dependant on these little breaks (don't sweat, he was also attending weekly sessions with a psychiatrist to deal with his underlying issues, but that didn't exactly account for the problems in the mean time) that his eyes grew heavier and heavier the closer it came to twelve and that if pushed aside for one reason or another, he would soon fall asleep right there.

Spencer, understandably, despised this, but it couldn't be helped. Although, it certainly didn't grant him any favours when he attempted to ward off the use of 'kid' in everyday conversation. On crime scenes. In front of _fellow officers._

Overall, he was in a much better place and felt stronger than ever.

As for Hotch's couch... Well, it had a few more additions.

A hand-knitted throw from Emily, who picked up the hobby for the jet home when she just needed _something_ to keep her mind occupied and her hands steady.

A stuffed lion courtesy of Morgan because the last thing Reid needs in his life is another bully and he wanted to prove that it was okay to indulge your inner child; he wasn't going to mock his best friend for something he obviously needed, and he wasn't going to write it off as silly.

Then there is the pillow pet JJ swears to this day that Henry pleaded she buy two of so that he and his Uncle Spence could have the same and not because she thought it was adorable.

Not forgetting the small stack of books no-one ever bothers to move. Classics collected by Rossi and Hotch each.

* * *

_Thank-you for reading. Hope you enjoyed this (hopefully) sweet one-shot. Please let me know what you think._

_Lyrics are from a song called Big Bad World by an Irish band named Kodaline._

_BTW, sorry if any language used offended anyone._

_Disclaimer: neither the song, the quote, nor the characters of Criminal Minds belong to me, but hey, I'm pretty sure you already knew that :p_


	2. Down

_Okay, so, this was_ supposed_ to be a one-shot, which, yeah, would've been fine and dandy if it weren't for the fact that I really love me some daddy!__Hotch (NOT as creepy as it sounds, promise). Lo' and behold, this happened. I can't guarantee it'll be any good and I'm not without regrets, but... What's done is done._

_Good news, though, for anyone interested. I MAY have another one of these one-shots left in me. If there's anything specifically that you'd like to see, then, please, by all means, feel free to PM me and I'll see if it's something I'd be up for._

_Oh, and, for anyone wondering, the songs were chosen primarily because I'm weird and use them as lullabies for my rabbit whenever he's scared or for the days when he's being particularly naughty and has been told off numerous times. In which case, he tends to feel sorry for himself and want to be serenaded and cuddled. _

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"I don't where I'm at_

_I'm standing at the back_

_And I'm of waiting_

_Waiting here in line, hoping that I'll find what I've been chasing"_

* * *

A piercing surge of pain cutting into the outskirts of his sockets, cramping around his temples, desperate and tenaciously resistant to standing down, Reid kneads his eyes with the heels of his hands, and narrowly draws in one - no, two - _three_ deep breathes.

In the rare case that he were actually honest with himself, the young profiler would admit to feeling… off. Not one-hundred percent, but certainly not under the weather as such, either. Nothing terrible enough to warrant a, let's say, thirty-percent when calculating overall fitness - a hundred being _his _personal best, which measured against the likes of, well, Morgan, maybe, wouldn't be nearly as high considering his naturally scrawny physique.

Even so, Spencer takes inventory of all those minor details that contribute to this _off-ness_, and in that big, bad brain of his, unearths an abundance of information that can only lead one, logical conclusion.

He, Dr Spencer Reid, has contracted the flu.

Shivering, he wonders absently if it's due to the cold, or from his own horror at effortlessly picking up something so undesirable despite his vigilance and having no idea _how_.

From the corner of his eye, he tosses a glance over his team mates, considering…then he shakes himself for being so silly and wordlessly apologizes.

Still, he can't help but think, as he studies his contaminated hands.

_Hmm.. last weekend, maybe? Seems like the likely culprit. _Everyone had gathered at Hotch's for a barbeque, where he'd-

A sudden flash of comprehension.

_Where I'd spent the day building bridges out of Lego with Henry and Jack! Two boys whose idea of clean is wiping their hands down the front of their pants!_

Reid sighs. That'd teach him about volunteering to keep the kids occupied while the other men '_minded the grill_.' Puh-lease. Did they really think he wouldn't know it was just an excuse to crack open a few beers?

And on that note…

To be fair, it wasn't like he was terribly inconvenienced or anything. It was fun. He'd genuinely enjoyed himself, and would rather have another repeat of that giggle-fest than have to endure the girl's gossip gorge any day.

"Hey, Reid?" A call from his left draws his attention.

"Yeah?" he mumbles thickly.

Turning, the BAU's youngest feels a chill along his spine where the pooled heat has dampened his mauve shirt, the collar rough against the sensitive skin of his neck. His muscles ache with every movement, but that's nothing compared to the ripple of pain as his stomach constricts and tightens.

"Everything okay?"

"Sure, Morgan." It's hard to concentrate on words. He can't wad through the sludge far enough to _think_. "Just _wonderful_."

"Is that sarcasm I'm detecting?" he laughs. "It is, isn't?" Another moment and he frowns, eyes dimming, before tacking on with a pang of concern, "What's up, man? You don't look so hot."

_Why can't he just leave me alone?_

_"I'm fine," _he hisses through gritted teeth.

God, he isn't some _child_. They don't have coddle him so darn much.

"Wow, Pretty Boy," Morgan blurts, raising his arms in a placating gesture that comes across as especially patronizing now, in this foul mood. "Put the grumpy-kitten glare away, okay? I'm just asking. _Jeez_."

"Can you just drop it? Please?"

When he doesn't immediately respond, Spencer adds snidely, "Thank-you."

Throughout this exchange, Hotch's eyes have become thinner and thinner, and it takes Reid a full minute to register that everyone is presently staring at him with identical expressions of confusion and worry.

"That goes for all of you. Not. A. _Word_."

A number of eyebrows shoot up.

Curtly facing the window and single-mindedly ignoring his friend's stupid, silent conversation.

Thoughts of a warm, cosy bed invade his mind and his eyes long to drift shut. However, as enticing as such luxuries may be, Reid will not - not ever - admit defeat.

Illness is an indulgence he simply cannot afford, and provided that he is not confined to his bed by necessity, then a bed is not where he will be. He is not so spineless as to be taken down by some glitch in his immune system.

No matter how groggy and spacey and just plain _weird_ he feels.

Around him, he can just about make out the hushed conspiring.

_Yeah_, he'd roll his eyes but he's sorta afraid to, _Real subtle. _

"Do ya think maybe he's just tired?" (Blankety blank. Something too low to distinguish) "-time for a nap?" Judging by the voice, it sounds like Rossi's shrugging.

Reid's cheeks threaten to colour.

Regardless of how many times he tells them that it is a wise,_ totally-normal-compulsory_-_snooze_, it has simply never caught on.

"Nah, Hotch ordered the kid to go lie down after he almost chocked on a couple of markers. He tried to chug a cup full of 'em thinking it was coffee."

Of course Morgan would say the most damning thing and not even attempt to hide the fact that he'll never live that down, even if he lives for the next hundred years. It wasn't even his fault! He still maintains that they should never have set it down in front of him.

"Did he go, though?" JJ pipes up. "Spence didn't seem too happy about it."

"There was a bit of fuss." Hotch. "But once I got him to the hotel, he was asleep before his head even hit the pillow."

Pause, then:

"Good thing I remembered to bring Mr Mc Fuzz."

This is quickly followed by an exasperated sigh. "For the last time, Morgan, it's a girl and HER name is Nancy!"

"What?! Since when?!" he cries in response, before frantically shaking his head. "Emily, no! Just no! It should be illegal to call such a majestic animal something so lame as _Nancy_."

"Oh, yeah? Then I suppose you wouldn't mind calling Garcia and repeating that to her.. After all, she _is _the one who came up with it."

Gasp. "You did not just-"

Emily's smile, by all rights, is irksomely victorious. "Do you really want to face the wrath of your precious Baby Girl?"

"Look, Ems, _I_ am the one that bought the stupid thing. Therefore, I am the one-"

"Guys-_guys_!" JJ interrupts, sounding incredulous and bemused all at once. "Cut it out, both of you! You're talking about a _stuffed lion _here." She takes a deep breath, as silence overwhelms the jet once more.

"Besides," she mutters primly. "It's Sprinkles."

At that point, Rossi can't hold it in any longer and releases a hearty cackle.

Even Hotch can't resist a quiet chuckle.

"What the-? _Sprinkles_? Are you crazy?!"

"Like you're one to talk!" JJ fires back, sounding deeply offended. "What part of 'Mr Mc Fuzz' screams _majestic_?"

"She's right, Derek." The black-haired profiler tuts. "What were you thinking?"

This carries on for several more minutes with each proudly defending their corner. At first, Reid had hoped it would die down of its own accord, but after the argument hits the twenty-minute mark, that begins to seem unlikely.

"Okay, that's enough!" Spencer finally exclaims when his pounding headache just can't take it any longer. "What age are you? Three?! Can we _please_, - and trust me, I'm begging here - just _**let it go**_?"

Glaring at each other, then at him, they each give a terse nod and fall back on their seats, blowing out an breath of frustration.

"Are we all good?" he double-checks, because, seriously, what is going on?

"Yeah, whatever," Morgan grumbles, his sentiment swiftly parroted by the women.

"_Thank, God," _Spencer breathes, slumping in relief.

Then, like an afterthought, "And for the record, it's Dr Roar. Henry thought it was only fair that the little guy had a doctorate, the same as me."

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"I shot for the sky_

_I'm stuck on the ground_

_So why do I try, I know I'm gonna fall down_

_I thought I could fly, so why did I drown?_

_Never know why, it's coming down, down, down."_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

Reid is seriously beginning to resent his pitiful, damsel-in-distress-like reputation in the group by the time the jet lands and both Hotch and Rossi team up to herd him towards their SUV.

(For God's sake. What is it about him that invites this great deal of mother-henning?)

Naturally, he protests, - loudly and to no avail - and do you know what their razor-sharp leader does? Take a wild guess.

With Spencer impatiently trying to dodge out of the way, Hotch promptly places one hand on his burning forehead, before declaring in this annoyingly deadpan tone, like he knew it all along, "Fever's way too high. You're in no condition to drive."

One step in the wrong direction (no, seriously) and straight away, he regrets it.

Vision swimming, his knees all-too-prepared to buckle underneath him, the two elder men share a glance, before taking an arm on either side and all but hauling him towards their destination, his feet dragging not due to resistance, but because he can't uphold the strength required to keep up with the speed they're walking.

It would be humiliating if he weren't so out of it, anyway.

"Is he alright?" Reid thinks he hears Emily whispering, but her voice is garbled and doesn't make all that much sense.

"Yes," Hotch assures the anxious agent, volume equally reduced and hazy. "Reid will be fine. It's just a bad case of the flu."

"Yeah, on the condition that he stays hydrated and possibly downs some ibuprofen, the boy will back to full health in no time," Rossi chimes. "I'm thinking he can just sleep it off."

"Ha," Morgan barks. "Am I hearing you right? Did you say _just_? Since when does Pretty Boy 'just' do anything?"

Spencer groans at that, not altogether sure if the message's been received.

"Can't argue with that," Emily sighs. "So what're we gonna do? You can't leave him alone to fend for himself."

"We're not," Rossi announces gruffly.

"I thought it might be best to take him home with me," their boss elaborates. "Jessica will have Jack for the week and someone needs to keep an eye on him. No offence to Reid, but having seen the amount of caffeine he burns through as a substitute for breakfast daily, I have little faith that he can look after himself on a normal day, never mind when he's borderline delirious." As he speaks, Rossi and Hotch help the disorientated young man into the backseat, strapping him in with ease.

The door shuts with a gentle thud and what had been muffled to Spencer before is pretty much white noise now.

A handful of words, here and there.

"-hold on-" "-Garcia freaking-" "-boy genius-" "silly-" "-need to-" "-last time this hap-" "-tell her I-" "-rainbow blanket-" "-hates that-" "-take care-"

He yawns widely, sleep tugging incessantly at what remains of his consciousness.

A whimper. "It's okay, Spencer." This sudden voice as gentle as the hand carding through his hair. "Go to sleep."

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"Not ready to let go_

_Cause then I'd never know_

_What I could be missing_

_But I'm missing way too much_

_So when do I give up, what I've been wishing for"_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

Spencer wakes with a start, darting upright, and pushing his fingers through his slick hair as he absorbs the unfamiliar surroundings.

Glimpsing at his torso, he recognizes the dishevelled clothes from yesterday and struggles to recollect the events leading up to this moment. Another sweep later, the young genius spies what appears to be a note settled amongst the lamp shade along with a hefty bottle of water, which he wastes no time unscrewing the cap and gulping down in quick succession. In that split second, he cares little for its origins, engrossed by the sensations of both the tickle in his dry throat and his cracked lips that are currently bleeding.

Exhausted and weak, he spends another full minute scraping together the will to reach over and seize the handwritten message addressed to him.

Eventually, he does, though not without his muscles protesting, before reading in a pace somewhat slower than usual.

_Spencer,_

_I apologise for my absence, but my presence was required at work. To answer your question, yes, I have arranged for you to take this day off, knowing of your poor health. Your attempts at deception were meagre at best._

_Nobody was fooled._

_Let this serve as a reminder that whenever we hear you utter the words, "I'm fine," the team is immediately alarmed._

_I hope you use this time to recover accordingly. The bathroom is to your right, should you fail to remember, and I have taken the liberty of preparing chicken soup; I trust you know how to work the microwave. Drink lots of water and most importantly, do yourself a favour and take it easy._

_See you soon,_

_Hotch_

Reid frowns.

As much as he appreciates having Hotch go to so much trouble, he doesn't want to be stuck lounging about here all day. It's not that he's uncomfortable staying over, (the place is practically a second home, given how often he shows his face around here) but more that, he _knows _he'll be bored stiff.

Besides, he doesn't feel _that _dreadfully. It's virtually just the sniffles, really; nothing intolerable.

Hotch is overreacting, like he typically does. This is absurd.

Spencer crosses his arms, scowl deepening.

It's just not _fair_.

CMCMCM

A brief rap on his door draws Hotch's attention to the slender figure entering his office.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he heaves a displeased sigh, and pauses a moment before muttering, "He's here, isn't he?"

"John down by security spotted him on his way up," JJ relates with a grimace. "Called a second ago to say he was concerned that a certain Dr Reid might pass out in the elevator. Apparently he and a co-worker wagered that he won't even make it to the fourth floor."

"That bad?"

She nods. "That bad."

A rarity for their unflappable leader, he utters a few choice words, which JJ excuses given the circumstances. "I _knew _this would happen." Anger growing, he rubs the napes of his neck. "That boy is as predictable as it gets."

The young mother bites her lip, feeling bad for Spence but unable to condone his careless behaviour. With a smidgen of nervousness on behalf of one of her best friends, she deduces, "He's in a lot of trouble, isn't he?"

"Yes," Hotch confirms, sounding none too happy about it himself. "Yes, he is."

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

_"I shot for the sky_

_I'm stuck on the ground_

_So why do I try, I know I'm gonna fall down_

_I thought I could fly, so why did I drown?_

_Never know why it's coming down, down, down_

_Oh I am going down, down, down_

_I can't find another way around_

_And I don't want to hear the sound, of losing what I never found"_

* * *

CMCMCM

* * *

By the time Reid approaches his desk, he can barely put one foot in front of the other.

And for the life of him, he just can't seem to grasp why.

Then, out of nowhere, Morgan materializes right beside him, carefully steering him towards his chair, and oh, isn't that handy?

"Hi, there, Pretty Boy." His voice is really, really kind. And friendly. Can't forget friendly. Why hasn't he ever noticed that before? His friend is really friendly. "Didn't expect to see you in today."

Spencer shakes his head and squints as he tries to settle his disjointed thoughts.

"My feet, Morgan," he babbles in an abrupt burst of recollection. "My feet, they don't-they don't work so good right now."

"Oh?" Morgan's voice holds only polite interest as he struggles to reserve a straight face. "How so?"

"They're all wobbly and sore and no good!" the distressed man moans, wrinkling his nose. "They're just no good, Morgan!"

"I'm sure they're fine," the amused profiler tries to reassure.

"They're not, though. I mean, look!" Without warning, he yanks off his shoe, chucks it aside, and angrily wiggles his toes. "Just look! It's _ALL **WRONG."**_

To Morgan's immense relief, Hotch chooses that moment to come to the rescue before he has the chance to dissolve into hysterics.

"How is he?" he asks in obvious concern as he dashes over. "What-" He pauses, steps slowing. "What is he doing?"

"Demonstrating the wrongness of his toes," Derek claims miraculously steadily at the same time Reid exclaims, "Hotch!"

The unit chief glances down at the man he regards as a son with his flaming cheeks, and glassy eyes with teardrops weighing down on the lashes, and can't find it in his heart to stay mad.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, crouching down and collecting the stray sneaker off the floor. "It's alright. We'll get your foot patched up in no time, you hear?" Absentmindedly grazing the young genius' forehead, he inwardly frowns at the heat emanating from there. Over his shoulder, he reports, "Clearly his fever has shot up a lot higher than you'd hope for. We need to get him to an emergency room. Pronto."

"But-but what about my foot?" Spencer rasps with an expression of pure confliction.

"We can get that looked at too, if you'd like. In the mean time, would a bandage suffice, do you think?"

He nods, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

If Hotch thinks it'll do the trick, then he'll trust that it does.

"Well, okay then. JJ, fetch the first aid kit, will you? Then we can be on our way."

"No problem."

"Would you, um, like someone to accompany you?"

He smiles. "That would great, Prentiss. Do me a favour, though, and grab his things before we leave?"

"Sure. Your office?"

"My office."

For Hotch, it's a _long_ afternoon, (a feverish Reid is a difficult Reid) but by the time he helps an only semi-awake Spencer through the door and into bed, seeing the way his worn features go slack as a peaceful expression softens his face, arm curled around Nancy or Sprinkles or Dr Roar or whatever, makes every weary sigh worth it.

* * *

_Thank-you very, very much for reading._

_The song is called 'Down' and it's by Jason Walker._


End file.
